


Peaches and Penumbras

by glasgow_blue



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-19
Updated: 2004-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasgow_blue/pseuds/glasgow_blue





	

This was written for [this week's lotrpschallenge](http://www.livejournal.com/community/lotrpschallenge/17070.html)

The poem is Allen Ginsberg's [A Supermarket in California](http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/supermarket.html)

A mighty gracias to [](http://traveller.livejournal.com/profile)[**traveller**](http://traveller.livejournal.com/) and to [](http://diavestra.livejournal.com/profile)[**diavestra**](http://diavestra.livejournal.com/)

Title: Peaches and Penumbras  
Pairing: Dom/Viggo  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: 780  
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.  
Archive: Please ask.

Dom scans the grocery list as Viggo ambles off to find a cart. It's written on butcher paper--waxed and everything-- and is about the size of his chest when unfurled. It's more a catalog than a list, really; written in mixed media--everything from oil paint to ballpoint to what appears to be lipstick.

Oil: 10w30, Drano, muslin, bread, pickles, milk, coffee, kerosene, batteries, mustard, socket wrench (2 inch), fly swatter, wine, beer, tomatoes.

After tomatoes, there is a sketch of a daisy, perfectly rendered in pencil and green ink with yellow tempera highlights.

Soap, fertilizer, hose, grain, call hay guy, call farrier, two pounds #3 nails, tar paper, eggs, cheese (muenster), onions, pecans, Oreos…

The list goes on; an inventory of Viggo's thought processes. It makes sense in a stream of consciousness sort of way and Dom thinks about framing it. He likes the daisy and the whole thing would look good in his hallway next to the cocktail napkin Billy used to explain haggis.

Viggo returns, triumphant, grinning. "In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!"

Dom pulls out a sharpie, adds "shampoo" to the list, and falls in-step next to him with a small sigh.

"I have shampoo."

"I am not washing my hair with horse shampoo," he answers, saving the _again_ for his inner monologue. It smells funny and Dom can never get the proportions right. One capful to a gallon? How does that translate in the shower, anyway?

Viggo nods sagely and begins to hum along to the musak. _Blame It On the Bassanova_. He does a little two-step as they round the corner into the produce aisle. "Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?"

Soon, the cart is brimming with peaches, broccoli, papayas, bananas, spinach and avocados. Garlic. Watermelon. No tomatoes. No onions.

"I saw you, Walt Whitman," Viggo says, "childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys." The latter is punctuated with wagging eyebrows, a toothy smile, and a downright sashay into the dairy section.

"Muenster," Dom says.

"Check," Viggo grabs three bricks and tosses them in. He adds Feta and Gorgonzola. Dom adds "toothpaste" to the list.

"Pork chops!" Viggo declares and hangs a hard left.

"Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?"

"Precisely, Dominic."

They continue on like this, winding their way through the store in a haphazard pattern and quoting Ginsberg. Forty minutes later, the cart is laden with things that were not on the list and Dom's arms are full of things that were. He has tucked the fly swatter into his pocket and it slaps him in the small of his back whenever he takes a step. Self-flagellation, of a sort. Like the monks of old. The Oreos are hanging from between his teeth and the jar of pickles is balanced precariously in the crook of his left elbow. A bar of Ivory soap is tucked into the pocket opposite the swatter. It makes his pants hitch when he walks. Slap, hitch. Slap, hitch. There's a sort of rhythm to it that might drive a man insane after a while.

Viggo is still two-stepping. This time to an absolutely heinous rendition of _Paperback Writer_. Sacrilege.

"Let me see the list," he says.

Dom angles his hip forward and mutters around the cookies, indicating that it's in his pocket.

Viggo reaches in, rubs his thumb across Dom's waistband on the way, raises an eyebrow, and unfolds the list with a herald's flair.

"Artichokes!" He flips a u-turn and is heading for the canned goods. Dom trails along behind, trying to keep the pickles from falling; doing a lurching two-step of his own. Slap, hitch. Slap, hitch.

Once the artichokes have been secured, Viggo aims for the checkout lines. "Where are we going, Walt Whitman?" He asks. "The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?"

Dom spits the cookies onto the conveyor belt and piles everything else on top. He taps Viggo on both shoulders with the flyswatter, knighting him. "I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd."

The musak switches. Sinatra, this time. _Fly Me to the Moon_.

Viggo smiles and lays a hand on Dom's hip. "Shall we dance?"

The cashier is asking paper or plastic. The woman behind them is wrestling a candy bar from the clutches of her six year old. Across the way, a stock boy is mis-marking the magazines.

Dom smiles. Says yes. _Yes._

-end-

PS. There will be time for humility when I am dead.

 


End file.
